


Sunday Afternoon

by allthebeautifulthings9828



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angel Castiel, Angel Wings, Castiel in the Bunker, Castiel's Wings, Couch Cuddles, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Domestic Fluff, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Love, M/M, Masturbation, Men of Letters Bunker, Naked Cuddling, Nesting Dean, POV Castiel, Porn, Porn With Plot, Post-Coital Cuddling, Romance, Sleepy Cuddles, Smut, Touching, Wing Kink, Wingfic, romantic sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:57:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1292239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthebeautifulthings9828/pseuds/allthebeautifulthings9828
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Sam seeing a girl more and more in Missouri, Dean and Castiel are left in their own domestic bliss in the bunker. They cuddle on a ratty old couch Dean finds at a garage sale and watching a movie together soon turns into making out. It escalates quickly when they realize Castiel's wings (which only Dean can perceive) are highly sensitive to touch. It's an experience neither of them will soon forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

> (Note: This Destiel story was loosely inspired by this piece of fan art but I don't know who did it.)  
> 

"Dean, how do you have such bony elbows? You're putting my wing to sleep." The angel squirmed beneath the hunter. "Roll over this way."

Huffing impatiently, Dean leaned up on Castiel's chest and jammed himself into the crook between the back of the couch and the angel's body. "These giant things? You kidding? I swear to God, I'm gonna build a bigger couch. It shouldn't be this much of a pain in the ass to watch a damn movie."

"There's no need for blasphemy," Castiel chided with gentle tapping of Dean's cheek.

"Fold your wing back that way," urged Dean.

Low chuckling parted Castiel's lips in a faint smile. "Yes, that's about as comfortable as folding your arm backwards around your back. I'm not as flexible as you imagine me to be."

"I dunno about that." A sly, wriggling little smile shone down on him. "You did that thing over the table in the shooting gallery the other day, remember, and I--"

"--Yes, yes, I see your point but you're still putting my wing to sleep." The heel of Castiel's hand pushed into Dean's chest and shoved him upward. "Trade places with me."

Dean raised up on his knees, perched at the end of the ratty old couch while Castiel shifted and made room for him. Since Sam started seeing a girl in Missouri, his long weekends away from the bunker left Dean and Castiel to their own devices more and more. One day, the angel found the hunter rearranging a small room off the library with a couch he picked up for twenty dollars at a garage sale and a little entertainment center at the other end of the room. He'd only eyed Castiel in passing and said he was nesting, to which Castiel didn't question. Instead, he brought home a few things in the following weeks as well. An end table with a squeaky drawer. A painting of a ship at sea with an elaborate frame (Castiel had developed a fondness for the sea).

The pair of them settled together again on that old couch--this time Dean beneath Castiel. Black wings stretched over the back of the couch in one direction and fed underneath the coffee table with the uneven legs in the other direction. Their great size covered most of Dean's body like a blanket and it never seemed to bother him that the wings were, in fact, a glaring reminder that they were from different worlds. Yet their bond ran so deep that his human vision forced its way through the veil and he became the only person on Earth who could perceive their existence.

"Better?" Dean said, crossing his leg over the back of Castiel's calf.

"Yes," he replied. His weight shifted until his hip fell in the tight space between Dean's pelvis and the couch cushion. With his leg tugged up just slightly, he slung his arm around Dean's chest and quite nearly resembled an angel-octopus hybrid latched onto the hunter's body. He deeply exhaled, saying, "I'm quite content now."

"Great, except I can't reach the remote now." It sat on the coffee table just out of reach.

"Don't need it," mumbled Castiel into his shoulder.

The angel blinked and the DVD player came to life, playing Dean's selection of Thor: The Dark World. Mythology made into action films intrigued Castiel, though he knew Dean harbored a bit of an attraction to Natalie Portman too. That was all right, mainly because he found the man portraying Loki rather aesthetically pleasing just like that actress. Every human was beautiful to him, but he realized some held his attention more than others.

Time passed as the movie played on and Dean eventually fell into a lazy motion of threading his fingers through Castiel's feathers. He seemed to think of feathers like a length of human hair, forgetting that each centimeter contained nerve endings highly sensitive to heat, cold, electromagnetic waves, and physical touch. Castiel's spine prickled and he fluffed that wing, which pulled Dean's attention from the movie.

"What?"

Castiel didn't know how to explain the distracting sensations.

He felt a slow smile spread over Dean's entire presence. "Are you ticklish or something?"

"Not exactly," the angel mumbled.

"Then what is it?"

Castiel sighed. "Watch the movie, Dean."

He felt the hunter turning it over in his brain, trying to solve the puzzle. It wasn't that Castiel felt shameful about it or that Dean's questions irritated him. Translating his species into human understanding didn't always connect for him and he couldn't find the right words. He fluffed the length of that wing again, accidentally knocking into the underside of the coffee table as he sought a comfortable spot.

It seemed Dean couldn't keep his hands out of those velvety black feathers for long, nor did he even realize how his hand found them again. Warm tingling radiated from each touch. If Dean looked closer, he would have seen the rippling effect his fingertips had each time they made contact with the blackness, turning it to iridescent shades of blue, red, and green. Along with each wave of iridescent touch came a different emotion or physical reaction. Castiel allowed Dean that intimacy, knowing what kind of pedestal the hunter placed it on, but he didn't realize it skewed the angel's ability to focus.

"Cas..."

"What?"

"You're ... you're kinda rubbing on my hip bone. I mean, we can do that. It's cool, but..." He let out a hazy chuckle as if he knew Castiel didn't understand his own reaction.

"Oh." Castiel's head popped up and he glanced down at their overlapped bodies, realizing the hypersensitive state of his own. "I... um... I apologize. Nobody... what I mean to say is nobody ever touched my wings before you, so I'm unaccustomed to..."

"Never?" asked Dean, brows furrowed.

The revelation affected Dean strangely and the way his eyes narrowed suggested regret and sympathy, yet he said nothing. Instead his hand gripped Castiel around the back of the neck and tugged him down for a kiss. His free arm hooked around his ribs, hidden by the blanket of a wing, and though Castiel waited for his lips to begin tugging aggressively as they usually did, nothing more than tenderness and understanding passed between them. Dean had been starved for affection most of his life too. Suddenly Castiel understood that, in spite of the numerous women scattered in his history. There was, he learned, a distinct difference between the touch of love and the touch of lust.

Just when he considered breaking away to talk about it and analyze it to death, the hunter rose beneath him. Castiel followed his lead and they tumbled back on the other arm of the couch with Dean fitted snugly on top of him. The silence of it all punctuated the air. Usually his human lover made a series of verbal entreaties buried in filthy titillating language. His presence felt heavier, yet entirely unmarred by the wall of bravado so ingrained in his character.

"What about the movie?" Castiel whispered.

A slow smile lifted Dean's mouth, saying, "What movie?" in a low voice as he peeled off his own shirt and threw it on the floor.

Noise erupting from the television faded into silence in Castiel's ears as Dean took his time plunging into the slow, impossibly deep kisses that made all sense of ticking minutes disappear. Piece by piece, clothing fell away and Dean never seemed to question why it was so easy to pull off the angel's shirt around massive wings. It shouldn't have worked, except the body of an angel wasn't prone to earthly laws of mass and solidity. Perhaps Dean understood, as his flattened hands passed down the underside of each wing, that his perception of Castiel was like perceiving a little piece of Heaven. Such gifts should never be questioned.

But as nice and lazy as it felt to touch and kiss on the couch, a natural build of tightening energy propelled them forward. Castiel bit his lip, peering up at Dean's eyes intensified by blown pupils, and felt the wickedly hard pillar of flesh against his inner thigh. Surely Dean felt the state of his vessel's arousal begging for attention as well.

A flush of head wound its way through Castiel as the hunter split his legs and lifted his knees. He couldn't help himself, skimming his own hands down along the shapes of Dean's chest, the attractive softness of his abdomen, until his leaking erection bobbed in his hand. The hunter sucked in a sharp breath and his pelvis bucked into Castiel's fist as he unabashedly watched himself getting worked into quite a state. He always watched themselves together.

Intent on keeping his focus, Dean passed an open palm down the thick length of flesh curving up Castiel's belly. They both moaned into each other's touch, losing themselves in the overpowering physical sensations quaking and threatening to explode.

Dean wound a hand lower and curled around Castiel's underside until his fingertips sought an opening that he never touched just yet. The angel bit his lip harder, knowing exactly what awaited him. Teasing him at first, Dean stopped long enough to suck his fingers into his mouth. There wasn't time or motivation to leave the couch in search of a bottle of lube sitting in Dean's nightstand drawer. Spit generously coating his fingers would have to do. And he knew exactly how to touch Castiel--slowly at first, making him pant and whimper for more. He never truly appreciated his vessel until he learned how good Dean could make it feel.

The moment arrived and Dean leaned over him, lining up the slick head of his rigidity with Castiel's body. He let out a stuttering groan, eyes closed and lined with building pressure, which Castiel forced himself to watch. Joined, finally joined, instinct took over and mutual desire rocked their bodies in a delicious rhythm. He stretched Castiel wide with each thrust, the burn mixed with the wave of intense pleasure.

Still, the hunter said nothing. Each roll of their hips and tightened grip of their hands on each other came with growling sort of groans as if they both fought to make it last longer. Teeth sank into Castiel's shoulder as it grew into a more erratic, desperate rhythm. His beloved only bit him when it was especially overwhelming, as if he needed to be grounded.

Then hands abandoned Castiel's waist and shifted to the exposed underside of his wings. Fingers curled into the sensitive feathers, into muscled flesh, sending such a jolt of raw arousal through him that his spine violently arched and he nearly came all over Dean. Green eyes, dark and blown, tore into him from above, making a study of taking him apart so thoroughly in a way he never thought possible. Castiel spiraled as Dean's hands raked torturously slow paths through his wings. His steady pistoning into Castiel's body added to it until he realized the dark, breathless moaning filling his ears came from his own mouth.

He couldn't take it. So many sinful sensations ripped him apart and Dean's relentlessness suggested he wanted to know how far he could push Castiel into depravity.

"Dean... Fuck, _yes_..." The angel lost all sense of decorum, resorting to language he never used.

Castiel's hand fell of its own accord, needing to snap the overwrought rubberband of pressure before his sanity took its leave. He tightened a fist around his own cock, bobbing with Dean's wicked rhythm, and his fist sailed up and down his length. Nothing about his brain connected enough to realize that he so rarely touched himself that the sight of it sent Dean into his own depths of depravity.

Hot breath caressed his neck as Dean leaned down, whispering through staggered groans, "Let it go, angel. Let it go."

Blinded, paralyzed, and surrendered to Dean's touch, Castiel gave a hoarse cry as thick whiteness splashed over his hand between their bodies. Each of his muscles flexed and curled against his will--even the wings so intimately touched under Dean's hands--and only mild awareness of a crashing table reached him. Giving in to it so wholly felt as if he became infused from the inside out by the ...  _love_ ... Dean had always carried around for him.

Sometime later, Castiel's senses returned. He wasn't even aware of whether Dean found his own release but the still, dead weight draped over his naked body told him everything he needed to know. Hazy and liquidy muscles left Castiel ready for a nap--except he didn't even need to sleep. He'd never been so thoroughly wrung out. Sighing, a heavy hand played with Dean's hair.

"I guess that answers that question," Dean mumbled into his neck.

"What question?" Castiel mumbled back.

"Why you get all squirrelly whenever I touch a friggin feather."

"I didn't know how to explain it." Silky, deep chuckling rolled from Castiel's chest. He wrapped his arms around Dean's shoulders, thinking a shower for both of them was in order.

He felt the plumpness of Dean's cheeks with his smile. "Well, I think we figured it out."

"Dean?"

"Hm?" The hunter yawned.

"How did the movie end?"

Dean shrugged. "No friggin idea."


End file.
